


i can't find you in the body sleeping next to me

by barbiemalik



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Abuse, Surprise Kissing, WARNING: minor character abuse, and this all just came out, and yeah harry and louis are in a struggling relationship, so basically i really wanted to write another fic, theres gonna be some great smut too, youll seeeee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 10:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4056805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbiemalik/pseuds/barbiemalik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry and louis have trouble falling in love when there's more alcohol than they can handle</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i used to love him

**Author's Note:**

> hey lovelies, it's olivia again, and i've started to write again. it's been a long time since i've updated my works and/or written in general (my computer broke) but now i've got a computer again and it's time to get this shit going... i hope you enjoy

**_ "my ghost, where'd you go? _ **

**_ i can't find you in the body sleeping next to me _ **

**_ my ghost, where'd you go? _ **

**_ what happened to the soul that you used to be?" _ **

 

_ "I used to love him. I used to love him more than anything in this entire universe, you know. I hope he knows that. I hope he comes back someday. I want to love him again." _

 

Harry puts down the bottle of liquor and shrugs into his own fragile frame, like a turtle would. It's not uncommon for Harry to talk to himself, or drink too much, or lose the people in his life that he finds most important. It's been over a year now, and he's still not okay. Harry still picks at his nails, something that would have bothered 'him' not so long ago. It seems like decades have gone by since Harry's felt anything. It all just feels so numb at this point. He could die and no one would notice. Not after what he'd done to him. Not after that night.

He'd met him over 2 years ago now, and he'd fallen in love quickly. Harry tends to do that a lot, he guesses. He remembers the night he met him very clearly; maybe clearer than anything else in his blurry head. He was drunk, which figures, because it factors into one of the many reasons he left him. Louis. It's all Harry thinks about. It's all he ever thinks about, actually. He'll go out and buy milk, and even that triggers a memory of Louis. How Louis would only buy chocolate milk, and beg Harry not to get 2%, then shrug as Harry would give him lectures on being healthy, and then Harry would, of course, oblige to Louis, as Louis would make pouty faces and puppy eyes, and buy him the chocolate milk because that's what we sacrifice for the people we love, right? Something like that. Or when Harry walks over to his bedside table to shut off the table lamp, and remembers how Louis would make fun of the tiny fairy light Harry kept plugged against the wall because he needs a nightlight while Louis was convinced it was the most adorable thing he'd ever encountered and Harry would blush and cover his face and Louis would tear them off and- it was all too much to think about now. These thoughts come to Harry regularly, though. There's really no way to get them out, so he drinks, and he drinks, and he drinks until the pain has subsided to a dull throb. It still hurts, though. Harry doesn't think it will ever stop hurting. 

-

It's 3:12 in the morning, and Louis is awake. He's got a bruise under his left eye, and he's shaking. Like, actually shaking. Not from the cold, but because he's scared. Terrified, even. He's scared of himself, and what he's capable of. He didn't mean to leave Harry. He didn't mean to walk out saying the things he said. It just poured out, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. He wishes he had stopped it now as he touches the sensitive black and blue beneath his sagging eyes. Louis is exhausted, but he doesn't care. All he can think about is how much it hurts. Not his eye, but his heart. Louis didn't think it was actually possible when people said their heart was breaking, until now. Now he knows, and God does it hurt. He watches the clock now, waiting for the 2 to switch to a 3, then a 4, 5, 6- until it's changed to 0 again and Louis can breathe. He does this until it's 4:00, and he no longer can breathe. It's hard to breathe when you don't want to breathe anymore. Louis rubs his eyes, wincing at the pain he realizes is still there under his eye, and opens and closes them until his vision isn't blurry from the sleepies resting in the corners of his eyes. God, does he miss him. Harry made him feel _good_ , in so many ways.

He flutters his fingers over a lovebite on his collarbone, and sighs. Not loud enough to wake Zayn, who is sleeping just a couple inches away. Fortunately, Zayn was asleep when Louis had come over. He doesn't think Zayn was expecting company. It just fucking hurts so fucking much. He wants to be with Harry, snuggled in _their_  bed, feet intertwined with the eggshell colored sheets with Chinese food stains and their hands dangling off of the edges. He wishes Harry was here. Louis wishes he never left.

-

Harry sits. Harry waits. Harry drinks. And Harry waits some more. Everyday, he drives to Zayn's apartment. He knows Louis is there, because Zayn won't return his calls. He's the only one who hasn't. The rest of Harry and Louis' friends denied housing Louis with them. So, Harry narrows it down. Zayn's the only one left. He parks outside of the apartment, just a sidewalk dividing him from the entrance. He could walk up, ring the buzzer. But he doesn't. Instead, Harry waits, a bottle of vodka in his left hand, and a right hand on the steering wheel. Just in case Louis sees him, he can drive away before any questions are asked. He's got it all planned out. And so, Harry waits, hoping Louis will walk out and light fire to Harry's adrenaline so he can step on the pedal and leave forever. But so far, it hasn't happened. He assumes Louis hasn't left Zayn's since that night. It's only been 3 days. He doesn't blame him. Harry's hand begins to ache as he recovers memories he's tried so hard to store in the back of his brain. It comes back to him now, as he glances down at the bruises that lie atop his knuckles and connect with the veins that run down his hand. The faint background noise of a crackling stereo sends a distaste through Harry's mouth. Louis used to hate the radio. Well, used to probably means he still does. Either way, Louis isn't present Louis anymore. He's talked about in past tense, because Harry knows he won't come back anytime soon. Or worse, maybe not even at all. That's his worst nightmare. It hurts to love someone, Harry realizes, as his tips the bottle to his lips and let's the burning liquid flow down his throat. It doesn't burn as much anymore. It hasn't burned for a while now.

 

 

 

 


	2. come find me

Louis knows Harry is there. He should find it sad, or creepy. Anything but what he thinks, which ironically, is flattering. Ironic because it's the least bit flattering. But Louis is still in love with Harry, despite the groans he makes every morning when he has to look at his face in the mirror. Love hurts. Not this way, but, theoretically, yeah. Zayn disagrees, thinks it's bad for Louis' mental health, and that he should stay clear of Harry. Zayn doesn't put a time stamp on it, but Louis guesses Zayn doesn't want Louis speaking to Harry anytime soon. But Louis never followed rules anyways. Louis checks the clock that hangs above Zayn's old and rusty fridge. 2:47. Harry usually comes by 1:13, if he rushes. So he's out there now, Louis guesses. Louis didn't realize that Harry had been coming at a specific time everyday until he realized that Harry comes everyday at the exact time that incident happened on that night. And that's when Louis realizes that Harry knows he fucked up. So yeah, Louis is fucked up in a lot of ways for wanting to go back to Harry. He's fucked up in a lot of other ways too, that's for sure. But Harry didn't mean it, did he? Of course not. He couldn't have. Louis didn't mean what he said, either, so it's okay to go back to him, right? Louis agrees with his own thoughts, mostly because he has no one else that would agree with them. Except Harry, which hurts the most. Harry was always the one who /got/ Louis. The one who made Louis realize that there is love, and that he's capable of finding it. The one who, irritatingly, makes Louis eat healthy despite Louis' puppy dog eyes when he asks for chocolate milk at the market down the street. He loves him with all his heart, his mind, his soul. God, fuck, does he love that boy and his scrawny body and his lanky arms and random tattoos that correspond to Louis' and the little freckle above his belly button and the way Louis can trace his collarbones and make him laugh because it tickles. And Louis doesn't want to love anyone else.

-

The day that Harry thought would never come, came the day that Harry almost didn't leave his house to park his car with a bottle of liquor and his right hand on the steering wheel in front of Zayn's apartment. He's glad he got out of bed and forced himself to drive that fucking piece of shit he calls a car when his phone dings from underneath his thigh. He's a couple minutes later than usual, but it's okay, because Louis never comes out to see anyways, so it's not like he would care. His phone dings again, so Harry checks it half-drunkenly to see Louis' name flashing across the screen. Fuck. He opens it with shaking thumbs to see 2 blurry messages.

 

_ iMessage (1) _

_ I see you _

_iMessage (2)_

_ you can come up, you know x _

 

Harry's spine shivers. He can't move. He can't force his legs out from under the steering wheel and he doesn't know why. The only thing he wants right now is to see Louis, and the last thing he can do is fucking move. Harry clicks away at his keypad.

 

_Hi Louis._   


 

It's all he can get out. It's kind of a weird reply, he thinks now as he presses the send and watches the message turn to blue. He waits anxiously for a reply and taps his free fingers against the steering wheel. That's when he remembers the bottle in his left hand. How much did he drink? As he peers at the tinted bottle, he notices it's almost half way gone. He's drunk. 

_Ding._

_iMessage (1)_

_ hi hazza x. _

Harry cringes at the name as he continues to read, vision going hazy.

_ iMessage (1) _

_ zaynie is out. im not scary. you can come see me now if you'd like _

 

So Harry does as Harry is told. He manages to lift his dead weight out of the car and onto the pavement. His body aches as he stumbles along the pavement to the front door of the apartment building. He presses the buzzer until he hears a click and pushes the door open. Floor 3, room 3B. The flights of stairs make Harry feel queasy. Or maybe it's Louis that makes him feel queasy. He doesn't know the difference at this point.

When Harry reaches the door, he hesitates, then knocks twice. When there's no answer, he knocks again. He thinks he has the wrong door until a small frame emerges from the inside. He's thinner than usual, with a prominent bruise under his left eye. Harry feels his palms getting sweaty as time passes by and Louis takes Harry's hand quickly and drags him into the spacey room. It smells of a mix of day old pizza and chinese food. Louis stands there, small and weak. Harry's a lot taller and has a larger frame than the small boy. He misses him. He shudders again. Neither of them say anything for a while. Louis stands there, emotionless, staring at his feet and fumbling with the change in his sweatpant pockets. Harry paces the wooden floor, shaking top to bottom, until he figures no one will say anything until he does. He made the mistake. It's his turn to apoligize.

 

"Louis. Louis- I- I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-"

 

"I know."

The words immediately send goosebumps up Harry's arms. Louis' voice is so frail.

 

"No, Louis. It was hurtful. We said some things we shouldn't have. I'm sorry. I love you- God, fuck, Louis I love you and I am so sorry I can't even tell you-"

 

Louis cuts him off again. "Harry, it's okay. I'm okay. It doesn't hurt that much anyways."

Louis looks up at Harry for the first time since Harry stepped inside. His eyes are sad and tired, but they're still as blue as ever. Blue meets green. Harry smiles.

Louis winces as he touches his face, then drops his hands into his pockets again. He shrugs. Harry doesn't know why he wants him here.

 

"I can go, I mean- I just don't- fuck. Babe, I don't know what got into me. I love you so fucking much." Harry stumbles across his words as his heart wretches inside him. It hurts a lot right now.

Louis wants Harry to know it's okay, even if it isn't. Because in reality, it isn't. You shouldn't hurt someone you love. Or maybe you should. It's fucked up, though, Louis has concluded. Either way, he doesn't want it to happen again. 

"I love you Harry. I do. I don't want this to be what's become of us. It hurts a lot. I love you too much, you know?"

Harry nods in agreement. Louis knows Harry's not registering much because he smells like the inside of a nightclub at 2am. But it's now that Harry decides to play back the night in his head, step by step, line by line. It's time to try and remember what he did. Maybe it's the wrong time and place to do it, but there's no one he feels safer around. Louis is his home.


	3. if you leave

**_"If you leave, don't leave now_ **   
**_Please don't take my heart away_ **   
**_Promise me just one more night_ **   
**_Then we'll go our separate ways"_ **

It was a Friday night, and like every Friday night, Harry and Louis met Zayn, Niall, and Liam at the bar downtown. It was the one day of the week that they could always make time for each other and get completely fucked up. Louis secretly hated when Harry was drunk, though he would never tell him. Harry was a fragile drunk. Louis could make Harry cry just by laughing too hard at someone else's joke. The boys order their usual round of beers, Niall with the Guinness (for the Irish, of course) while the others settle for whatever will get them the most drunk. For some reason, though, Harry's impulse tells him to order a round of shots. And so he does, ignoring Louis' glaring eyes of disapproval. He wants to get drunk. He loves Louis, but he loves alcohol too. Both get him drunk enough. 

It's around 8 when it hits him. Harry has trouble fumbling for his phone as it buzzes in the back pocket of his pants. He gives up and continues drinking with his pals, until it buzzes again. It's Louis name that pops up onto his phone, who oddly enough is sitting directly beside him. 

 

_iMessage (1)_

 

_i think its time we go, love_

 

Harry looks up to Louis' long eyelashes, something he's always adored about him. Louis wants to leave. Harry doesn't. The usual.

So, Harry rolls his eyes and ignores the text as if Louis wouldn't know that Harry saw it. He feels Louis shrug and sigh beside him, but he doesn't care. He can tell Louis is getting antsy when he places his hand on Harry's and squeezes his thumb between his forefinger. It had always been their code for uncomfortable situations or some shit like that. Harry waves it off. It's not until Louis gets up to go to the bathroom that Harry realizes something might be wrong, but his intoxicated brain can't register it. Instead, he focuses on the empty shot glasses that surround him and orders yet another round. Louis doesn't come back. Harry doesn't care. 

Louis sits in the bathroom stall, face between his palms, water uncontrollably streaming from his eyes. He's not sad. He's just frustrated. He hates when Harry gets like this, because once he's had a drink, he's not his Harry anymore. 

So, Louis waits. Waits for Harry to come and pull him out of the stall into his open arms and tell him everything's okay, and that they can go home now. But it doesn't happen. It rarely ever does.

Harry's beyond drunk at this point. His head has a pulsing heartbeat and he can't see his hands when he picks up his third round of shots. 

 


End file.
